


The Artistic Type

by sarken



Category: Third Watch
Genre: Gen, Juvenilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-03
Updated: 2003-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bosco reflects on the things he has learned about Faith throughout their partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artistic Type

**Author's Note:**

> This is the revised version of this story. I wrote it once and said, "Cute, but I'm not posting it." And something happened that made me say I would post it, but only once I touched it up and only because Third Watch needs more fluffy goodness.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Tap. Erase. Scratch. Scratch.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Scratch. "Huh?" Tap. Erase.

"You keep drawing and erasing the same straight line."

"It's crooked." Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Tap purposefully. Erase heavily.

"All right, then," he says, peering over her shoulder. The paper is blindingly white, but a pink-grey smudge from the new eraser mars the upper left corner. "Why do you keep drawing and erasing the same crooked line?"

Scratch. Scratch. "It's not straight." Scratch. Tap. Erase. Sigh. "I'm trying to draw something that requires a straight line," she says.

"What are you drawing?" Now he is curious. He's never known Faith to be the artistic type. He's never known her to be or to do many other things, either, but so far, she's proven him wrong each time: She's a reader who went to college and who cries and clings when she's frightened and sad.

He can remember the times when he learned each of these things. On rare instances, he can recall dates. It was on September 12, 2001, he learned of her tendencies for crying and clinging. He found it sweet and sad and scary to see his strong Faith crying and holding on to his hand, his arm, or even the back of his uniform shirt as they finally stepped away from the rubble and made their way back to the precinct. Later she told him she felt awful for appearing weak. He told her she wasn't; she was human.

Whether or not he can recall dates, context is always fresh in his mind. He learned of her penchant for reading (authors like Plato and Homer and others he couldn't pronounce) at three o'clock one morning -- he stood on carpet, looking through her bookshelves for romance novels to tease her about and she stood on blue and white tiles, making tea to help them unwind. He first learned of her college days while driving her home from the hospital after her 'miscarriage.' She accused him of going off on an existential tangent and then told him about going to college and studying philosophy for a semester. He still wonders what else she studied.

"I don't know yet," she admits as she bites her lip. "It just...it wants to be drawn and it wants to have a perfectly straight line. It's never going to have one. I feel like Sisyphus, like I'm going to draw and erase this line for eternity."

He adds 'Xena fan or knowledgeable about mythology' to his mental list. Still, he plays dumb and asks, "Sisyphus, like the STD?"

Faith laughs; he loves making her laugh. It's not musical or girlish like in books or poetry he's embarrassed to have read, but it's distinctively Faith. "No, like the guy who was doomed to push a rock up a hill for eternity. Sisyphus, not syphilis," she enunciates each word, as if she's speaking to a child. They always tease her about Bosco being her child.

"Must be some hill," he comments, watching a mangy stray cat drink from a puddle of polluted water that could easily kill it. "Probably goes all the way to heaven."

Faith concentrates on the line that isn't straight, not bothering to tell him that Sisyphus always reaches the top, but the boulder rolls back down. "Like the tower," she mutters to herself, not quite noticing that she speaks aloud.

He wonders if he can make her laugh again. He's like an addict, needing to hear the sound and once he hears it wanting more and more. He likes his addiction. "What are you babbling about?"

She smiles and to him, it's like wanting coke but getting marijuana; it takes the edge of his need, but it doesn't satisfy him completely. Checking her watch (she wears it on the underside of her wrist, reminding Bosco of doctors and too many trips to the hospital), she sighs and flips the black faux leather cover over the white pad of paper she's been drawing on. "Lunch break is up," she states, getting back into the RMP.

Bosco tosses the remaining two bites of his hamburger to the ground, thinking that maybe the scruffy orange cat will find it. He opens the car door and slides into the driver's seat, meeting Faith's eyes in the rear view mirror. She's looking, but not quite focusing, which makes him wonder what's going on behind her eyes.

He pulls out, deciding that he will ask someday.


End file.
